


Playing with Fire

by DratTheRat



Series: Friends and Lovers [1]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Friendship, Introspection, Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Slash, Prostitution, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 20:31:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12712416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DratTheRat/pseuds/DratTheRat
Summary: The world has moved on.  A young Roland leads his three companions through a post-apocalyptic landscape.  Alain follows, haunted by visions of hellfire seeping through too thin dimensional walls and his own presumably unrequited feelings for Cuthbert.  Meanwhile, Cuthbert struggles to reconcile his own desires with the behavior Roland - his dinh and dearest, oldest friend - expects from his right hand man.Possible minor spoilers forWizard and Glassand otherDark Towerbooks that refer to Roland's first ka-tet, includingThe Wind Through the Keyhole.Set before my Cuthbert/Alain first time storyThe Full Benefit of Choice.





	1. Chapter 1

Alain’s first time with a man is in an honest to goodness brothel. It is the most welcoming place he has been in a long time.

They had finally arrived there after spending three long days trudging after Roland along an abandoned railroad track, which they had first encountered as a trestle crossing over a mountain stream.

A week ago, they had been on the other side of the mountains. Support for Farson there was strong. In the end, they had skirmished with a band of inexperienced fighters stirred up by two of Farson’s lieutenants, though the Good Man himself was far away. They had escaped with only a few new scars but significantly more blood on their hands and scrambled into the rocky foothills before the survivors could regroup. There they had lain, silent and still as they could manage as they tended to their wounds, guns still cocked and ready, until they found themselves able to slip up the mountainside under cover of darkness.

‘Slip’ was right. Alain’s knees still smart from where he scraped them through his jeans, and the skin on his palms remains raw. As gunslingers, they are expected to be surefooted, but this was a steep ascent up a gravelly, windswept mountain chute, conducted in near darkness. Lightest and most nimble, Cuthbert led the way, seeking out the firmest hand- and foot-holds. Roland had followed at a safe distance, his keen eyes marking Cuthbert’s movements carefully. Alain had come next, then Jamie, looking frequently behind them, guarding against an increasingly unlikely pursuit as he memorized their twisting, climbing path. Now that it’s over, Alain can think back fondly on Cuthbert’s exaggeratedly pantomimed (and somewhat insincere) apologies each time he kicked a rock in someone’s face. 

‘Isn’t this wonderful, Roland?! I can’t think of anything better than this.’ Cuthbert spread his arms as he stood, at last, looking down at them from a patch of flat ground between two large boulders poised precariously on the mountain ridge. By the time they reached the top, they were relatively certain that they had not been pursued, and Cuthbert clearly could no longer stand to remain silent.

Roland climbed the last few feet to meet him and clapped him on the shoulder. Smiling, as he only ever smiles for Cuthbert anymore, he spun him round, and they watched the dawn seep over the new landscape on the other side of the range while Alain and Jamie struggled, unaided, up the final excruciating lengths of gravelly slope. 

Something bitter boiled in Alain’s stomach, and, breathing heavily, he immediately sat himself down under one of the rocks to dig in his pack for something to hide the taste.

‘Oh, excellent!’ Cuthbert exclaimed, suddenly focused on Alain. He rummaged in his own pack for a bit of dried meat swaddled in tasteless but edible leaves. ‘What have you got? I’ll trade you.’ 

He held out his unappetizing wrap expectantly until Alain gave in and exchanged it for his own identical, unsatisfying meal. 

‘You’re a true friend, Alain,’ he said, smiling sweetly. His eyes, bright with hunger and exhaustion in the early morning light, were dancing with mischief. With a cry of ‘Oh boy!’ he turned his attention to his wrap and devoured it with a speed that Alain worried might speak more of malnourishment and desperation than the jocularity he probably intended.

As Alain ate, he wondered if his own food actually did taste better because it had been Cuthbert’s ration first.

They rested well into the afternoon. From their vantage point, they saw their remaining enemies retreat back toward their town and took turns dozing in the warm sun, the boulders guarding against the icy mountain breeze.

‘Think you the world has really changed so much?’ Alain woke to Jamie’s softly murmured question.

‘Maybe,’ Cuthbert murmured back, ‘Else mapmakers in Gilead cared little for accuracy in the areas outside the inner circle.’

‘Your theory is a good one, Cuthbert son of Robert,’ Roland spoke at a normal volume from a position much closer to Alain, ‘And your cynicism not unfounded. But there is more than careless cartography at work here. The world has moved on. It is folding and stretching all around us, and the walls around the world we know are thin. You remember the thinny, Bert, and you the skin man, Jamie?’

Alain opened his eyes to see the two of them sitting close together on one of the boulders, Jamie cross-legged and Cuthbert curled up over his own knees, one arm around his legs. For a moment, their faces wore matching grim expressions as they regarded at Roland, who was standing near Alain’s feet in the gap between the two large rocks.

‘More work for you then.’ Cuthbert’s smile returned as he clapped Jamie on his back, and they both shifted their attention to the spot on the rock in front of Jamie’s folded legs where he had presumably been modifying his map.

Less interested in spatial relationships and numbers, Alain rose and followed Roland up onto the other boulder to survey the land ahead. 

This new side of the mountain was the one that caught the rain; it sloped more gradually and was covered in a dense forest of evergreen and deciduous trees, which opened onto occasional grassy meadows. Far away, a river formed at the base of the range and carried off into a more desert environment spotted with small, depressing looking towns. In the far distance, Alain thought he saw the telltale green and yellow squares of irrigated agriculture begin to crop up along the riverbank. 

He pointed. ‘There are people there.’

‘Yes,’ Roland agreed.

On the other boulder, Jamie had finished with his modifications, and Cuthbert was checking his work. Apparently satisfied, he began to add his own notes, reading them out loud for the benefit of his companion, who was a slow reader, in spite of his talent for geometry, geography, and math.

‘Bastard Town,’ Cuthbert said slowly as he wrote, then, ‘Canyon of Blood.’ Then, after a wry but genuine compliment on Jamie’s apparently accurate representation of the alarmingly vertical ascent to their current position, ‘Not recommended . . . seek alternate route.’

Jamie laughed softly, and Cuthbert smiled over at Roland and Alain to make sure he had amused them, too. Alain rolled his eyes and snorted, but Roland squinted into the rapidly darkening sky.

‘We should leave,’ he decided.

Alain looked up, ‘Fuck,’ he swore, and Cuthbert’s answering laugh as he helped Jamie fold away his map was almost carried away on the strengthening wind.

Black clouds billowed and churned. The telltale fog of distant but oncoming rain obscured the view of the new valley, clear only moments before.

‘Fuck,’ Alain said again and joined his companions in hurriedly gathering up his pack and securing his hat tightly on his head. A fat raindrop landed on the brim with a thud, and a crack of thunder sounded like a gunshot in his ear. They were standing, like little lightning rods, on the highest point around.

‘Down! Now!’ Roland yelled over the storm, and they all fled downward into the forest.

‘Oh Roland,’ Cuthbert called out, laughing, ‘I was wrong! This! This is the most wonderful thing!’ His hat flew off his head, caught on the leather thong around his neck, and billowed behind him like a kite. His brown hair plastered to his forehead, immediately soaked.

‘Fucking fuck!’ he cried, in imitation of Alain, ‘Come on!’ 

He took hold of Roland’s hand and ran with him through the rain. Cuthbert laughed, of course, and after a moment Roland joined him. It was, in fact, the most wonderful thing that had happened in a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

In the middle of the following day they found the railroad track. Every tiny ditch had become a raging torrent in the previous day’s storm, but eventually they stumbled upon a permanent creek, which they followed until they encountered the trestle.

Roland listened to the track for a long time before declaring no train was likely to come, and, after topping off their water bags, they said goodbye to the little stream and followed the track’s gentle slope down out of the mountains. The path was clearer than before and much easier walking, but bushes and branches still brushed against their thighs and arms. Little grasses and flowering weeds sprung up between the tracks. In places, vines curled and knotted over the tops of the rails. There had been no train in a long time.

They soon discovered one of the reasons why. An abandoned coal mine lurked just a few miles down the track, its entrance partially collapsed. Heavy machinery hulked morbidly in and around a giant sinkhole, which emanated wispy smoke and toxic fumes. Beneath their feet, the ground was hot, and the railroad ties were black and charred. There were no live trees in the vicinity; their roots had all been cooked.

Grimly, they stood in single file along the smouldering railroad track. Alain took a deep breath and reached out with the touch. His living companions faded away, and he was consumed by fire.

“Long,” he murmured, though whether he spoke aloud he could not say, “this fire has burned long. I hear the voices of the dead. Swallowed up by Hell.”

An arm slinked around his waist, drawing him into the fiery darkness. Hot breath scalded his ear.

The monster in the coal fire whispered, borrowing Cuthbert’s voice. “Let’s not join them, eh?” 

Alain gasped deeply and returned to himself. It was Cuthbert’s voice after all, and Cuthbert’s moist breath on his ear, his arm around Alain’s waist, not drawing him forward but pulling him back as he teetered on the rail, ready to step forward and plunge toward the yawning sinkhole. Alain cleared his throat.

“There are no survivors here,” he said to Roland, “Not anymore. The fire started a long time ago.”

He looked back toward the sink hole. How much of the ground beneath them was hollow, ready to give way?

“Let us move on, then,” Roland decided. He turned to walk away. “Quickly,” he added, over his shoulder.

Cuthbert snorted a soft laugh in Alain’s ear but pushed him in front of him on the track, out of their usual marching order. His hand lingered on Alain’s back until they were well past the burning mine, guiding him forward and blocking out the voices of the dying and the damned.

The trees dwindled steadily away, and the tracks took on a downward slope. Soon, they walked out of the forest altogether, and the slow, muddy river they had seen from the mountaintop seemed to rise up to meet them. At nightfall, they reached the first town they had been able to see from the ridge. Nestled where the mountain met the desert, this place had once been home to many men whose livelihood depended on the mine. Now, Alain saw only ghosts and ash.

They made camp in one of the abandoned homes and even risked a fire in the hearth. Jamie and Roland fished in the river and returned with mutie trout with several eyes and unusual, limb-like fins. They had a hot meal for the first time in weeks. Alain sat watch for most of the night, unable to sleep in the presence of fire.

The next town was also abandoned. Even smaller than the first, it looked like it had been formed entirely in support of the defunct railway, and its inhabitants had long ago moved on. They camped here in the shelter of the railway platform, lit another fire, and ate more mutie fish. At Cuthbert's urging, they swam naked in the river in the dark. Their fire burned all night. This time Alain slept.

The next day, before they reached the third town, they saw people. Roland noticed them first from a great distance.

“There are men on the tracks,” he said, “two of them.”

Alain, whose eyes were not so keen, reached out with the touch. He felt the sweat of great exertion, the unforgiving heat of the sun, the single minded dedication to a strenuous task.

“They are working hard,” he told his friends, “They are not looking for us.”

“Let us meet them, then,” Roland decided, “Perhaps Farson has not been here yet.”

Before long it became apparent that the men were digging, wrestling hefty railroad ties from underneath the tracks and stacking them on top of the rails. Coils of sturdy rope lay on the ground nearby, ready to help them drag a heavy bundle back towards the next town. They did not notice the travelers until Roland’s shadow fell across the tracks before their eyes.

Both men were sunburned and stocky with hairy, muscular arms bulging out of dirty, sleeveless tunics. The resemblance between them was remarkable, though one was twice the other's age. They squinted up at Roland.

“What, more armies?” growled the elder, “Like I told the last lot - you ain't takin’ my son.”

“Four travelers do not an army make,” Roland placated, “We thought we might seek shelter in yonder town. Would that be ill advised?”

The older man laughed a gravelly laugh. “What, did you miss your train?”

Cuthbert laughed light heatedly in return. “Why yes, say true, we were keen to catch the train to . . .” He wiggled his fingers in front of him, in the direction of the town.

The younger digger smiled unreservedly. “Marselberg,” he supplied.

Cuthbert grinned at him, “The train to Marselberg, yes, to save our tired feet, but alas we failed to reach the station on time.”

The older digger glowered, apparently displeased both by Cuthbert’s amiable reaction to his joke and his son’s amiable reaction to Cuthbert. 

“You’re years late. No train: no travellers. Men that’re armed make an army, however few you be. Go on up to town where they don’t care if you’re for the Good Man or against him, on the side of Right. It’s all horse shit to me - what’s good and right is leavin’ a man alone to live his life.”

Cuthbert laughed again.

“Your advice is appreciated,” Roland said, “We will leave you be and take ourselves to town.” 

He tipped his hat and led them past the digging operation. Although the tracks remained, the railroad ties had been removed as far as the eye could see.

The younger digger took hold of Cuthbert’s arm as he passed. His father’s grip on his shovel tightened, but Cuthbert only stopped and smiled.

“You’ll go to Miss Ethel’s,” the young man confided, “They have women there from all around, and you can pick them out like pretty parcels in a general store. When we have enough wood to make a house,” he pointed down at the heavy railroad ties, “then I will go to town and pick a wife. I used to think I’d marry Amelia Baker, but papa says our blood’s too close. ‘You need a wife that Ethel’s brought from somewhere else,’” he imitated his father’s voice perfectly, ‘“or you’ll have children what look like them fish.’” He grinned.

Cuthbert shook his hand and smiled. “I wish you luck.” 

The father scoffed. 

Several yards away already, Roland turned. “If Farson comes, he’ll burn your houses and your fields if you do not follow him - there will be no wives and children left.”

The elder digger spread his lips in something between a grimace and a smile. “This land is ripe for burning, boy. Fire took the miners, and it took the train. It took the men in Adelton and Marchly. We’ll live our lives until it comes for us. Farson only thinks he brings the fire; it is the true master of this land.”

How far is the underground fire from here? How close did it use to be? Alain glanced at Jamie, who gripped the leather chin strap of his hat between the thumb and forefinger of each hand and pulled the section in between them taut. Alain’s mind slid back toward the monster in the coal fire, which had seemed to speak with Cuthbert’s voice. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the touch.

“The world has moved on. We stand upon a leather thong stretched tight across a vast expanse of shadow and black fire,” he murmured, “There are monsters in the Todash darkness.”

“Fools,” the father’s voice pulled Alain back to the present world, “You see the truth and yet you fight. Go on then, get! Go and see Ethel and eat and drink and wet your dicks. Live while you can.”


	3. Chapter 3

On the way to Marselberg, they had seen more people from a distance - men, women and children peeked out of old brick houses or newer outbuildings built of salvaged railroad ties, but none of them approached the strangers. Fields of corn and beans and cabbage sprung up among the buildings, interspersed with pastures filled with mostly threaded looking sheep and cows. By the time they reached the town itself, the sun was going down, and Alain was practically drooling at the thought of a hot, balanced meal. They veered immediately toward the warm light that spilled from the windows of the single, welcoming inn: Miss Ethel’s.

Tall and direct, Roland has a presence that demands attention every time he enters a room, and this establishment was no exception. When he led them in, swinging the doors wide, every eye in the room had turned to stare, and conversations dwindled into silence. Ever at Roland’s shoulder, Cuthbert caught the door before it could swing back and hit him, then held it open and gestured for Alain and Jamie to precede him inside. Their boot heels hammered loudly on the raised wooden floor as they followed Roland to an empty table and slumped gratefully into high backed chairs.

Although the room was momentarily quiet, Alain’s senses were already overwhelmed. Most of the other people in the room were women, dressed in brightly colored costumes and doused in flowery perfumes, which mingled with the smells of hot, spiced food and sour, spilled ale. With the exception of the standoff on the other side of the mountains, it had been weeks or even months since Alain had been in the presence of so many people at once, and the tangled thoughts of all the people in the room swept unbidden through his mind in an unintelligible cacophony. He closed his eyes and reached out through the jumbled mess toward Cuthbert’s mind for comfort. Cuthbert was hungry. He was always hungry anymore, but here, where he could smell food and willing women all at once, the desire to be full and satisfied had been increased. Grateful for the familiar simplicity of the feeling and the presence of his friend, Alain concentrated on the answering feeling within himself, easily dimming his connection to the touch until the crowd of voices shrank to a distant murmur and only one coherent foreign thought remained, certain and persistent: gunslinger.

Alain opened his eyes and turned warily toward the source of the thought. Were they in danger now they had been recognized for what they were? Out of the corner of his eye, Alain saw Roland follow his gaze.

Like most of the other occupants of the room, the source of the thought was a woman. She was older than Alain and his friends by ten or more years but still very comely, with large, intelligent eyes and a self satisfied smile. Her billowy dress was a bright teal with sharp, black trim and a tightly laced bodice that both restrained and emphasized her ample bosom. Unseen, her soft soled shoes made little sound as she approached their table.

“Gunslingers from Gilead,” she proclaimed to the room, eliciting several gasps and giggles, “What will the wild winds bring us next?” She strode confidently toward Roland and lowered her voice. “I know not whether to be glad or disappointed to have missed a fray; a band of Farson’s followers was here last week.”

“You should be glad,” Roland replied, “though I, perhaps, should not. How many, and in which direction did they go?”

“Eight or ten - no match for you.” She stroked a slender finger down Roland’s arm. “They journeyed North, along the River Criss, which flows into the Marsel on the Western edge of town. Marselberg was a proud trading post in its day, when the railroad brought us coal out of the mountains, and we shipped it up the river to the cities of the North. Now the trade is little, but it still goes on, and we have more to offer weary travelers than many other towns.”

“Well, I am glad, for one,” Cuthbert grinned, “I hate fighting on an empty stomach and avoid it when I can.” 

“Though he looks but a well appointed scarecrow,” Roland said wryly, “my companion here could eat you out of house and home.”

If anything, Cuthbert grinned more broadly at the joke at his expense. 

“But,” Roland continued, “Ale and hot dinner is in order all the same.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, gunslinger,” the woman replied, “My name is Ethel, and this is my house. It is well stocked to attend to all your appetites.” 

And so it came to be that Alain is sitting in a brothel watching Cuthbert eat.

It isn’t that Cuthbert has helped himself to any more food than his companions, rather that the eating itself is taking an exceptionally long time. Alain has always enjoyed watching Cuthbert eat - his boyhood jealousy that Cuthbert could devour so much and yet remain so slim was always tempered by the pleasure of his company and the clownish way he shoveled food into his mouth in contradiction to his delicate features (and to the great displeasure of his own parents and the unguarded disgust of Roland’s father, Stephen Deschain). Over time, his mealtime habits had grown only marginally more subdued, and Alain’s enjoyment of them had intensified as he had learned to appreciate the bob of Cuthbert’s Adam’s apple when he swallowed and the way he licked his fingers at the end of every meal. More than once, Alain had pondered whether Cuthbert’s table manners were the result of his desire to amuse his friends, his own impish sense of humor, or some actual inability to be polite and proper unless lives are on the line.

Tonight, it is apparent it is not the last. The food Miss Ethel served was delicious but not courtly fare - savory meatloaf, steamed vegetables, drizzled sauces begging to be sopped up with squares of crumbly cornbread - but Cuthbert has been eating with such uncharacteristic decorum that he has outlasted all his friends. Daintily, he cuts himself one tiny bite after another, chewing slowly (with his mouth closed) before moving on to the next flavorful morsel. His plate must be cold by now, but he is only half finished.

Alain is not the only one watching. Roland is staring at Cuthbert as well, his frequently impassive face fixed in an expression that hovers between shock and amused surprise. Jamie, Alain notices, is watching him instead. Watching him watch. Shit.

Eventually, Roland speaks. “Enlighten me, Cuthbert. Why is it the manners you could never bring to my father’s table in Gilead have finally surfaced here, eating mutie meatloaf in a crossroads whorehouse?” He is smiling a little, so Alain does not think he is irritated, in spite of his words.

Cuthbert is, though. He was looking down at his plate and did not notice Roland’s smile. 

“Fuck off, Roland,” is his uncharacteristic reply. 

He speaks with his mouth full - something of a return to form - then looks up at Roland and the tension drains out of his shoulders. Roland raises his eyebrows, his smile still there. Cuthbert chews and swallows. Alain is momentarily distracted.

“If I eat any more than this, I know I will be sick,” Cuthbert admits, “Therefore, I am going to enjoy what I have here for as long as I possibly can.” He takes another dainty bite.

“You’ll disappoint the girls,” Roland continues to tease.

Cuthbert shakes his head. “I’m worth the wait.”

Roland laughs softly.

“Hmmm,” Alain wonders, “But are the rest of us?”

Cuthbert looks at him sharply. “Don’t be absurd,” he says, “At any rate, there’s no need for you to wait for me. Go on and take your pleasure.” He takes a swig of ale and raises his mostly empty glass. “Miss Ethel! My friends are ready for dessert!”


	4. Chapter 4

The madam appears almost at once, standing behind Jamie. “I’m glad,” she purrs. “Do you know your pleasure, then, or shall I tell you what’s on offer? All my beauties are free to make their own arrangements. Speak to them, if you like.”

Cuthbert continues to slowly finish his food while Roland stands and walks about the room, surveying prospects for the night.

Alain also scans the painted faces of the women in the room, but from his seat. He hates this part. He does not have Roland’s charisma or Cuthbert’s pretty looks, and he always worries that his whore would rather lie with one of them. His body aches for a release, but from which gilly he cares not, so long as she does not complain. He wonders if Jamie, with the red mark on his hand, sometimes feels the same. He looks in his direction, only to find that Ethel has pressed herself up behind him, one slim hand sliding down the column of his neck while the other rests on his broad chest.

“I like the way you look,” she whispers in his ear. The hand on his neck glides up to caress his cheek, one finger tracing his eyebrow. She means she likes the way he watches them. “Do you like me, lad?”

“Jamie,” he tells her.

“Do you like me, Jamie? Or would you prefer someone younger?”

Jamie shakes his head, and his curls brush along the cleavage of her breasts. “I like you very much.”

“Will you come upstairs with me, then? Or do you need to ask permission”

“No,” he says, “I’ll come.” 

He stands and shoulders his pack, nodding at Alain and Cuthbert and raising a hand toward Roland, who is holding quiet conversation with a tall, long legged blonde. Her hair is not as long as Susan’s, but she’d look quite like her from the back. Roland raises his hand in return.

By the time Roland is following the blonde girl upstairs, Cuthbert has finished his meal. He drains the last of his ale, wipes his mouth, and stands, spreading his arms wide.

“Who likes me?” He calls out to the room at large.

A tittering of giggles swirls across the room. Alain bangs his head on the table.

“Alright there, friend?” Cuthbert asks softly. A long fingered hand comes to rest on the back of Alain’s head and strokes his tangled hair.

“You can’t have them all, Bert,” Alain jokes and sits up straight. Cuthbert’s hand lingers for a moment in his hair. 

Cuthbert is laughing brightly at Alain's joke when a wide and worldly looking whore takes hold of him and pulls him away from the table. She is several inches shorter than Cuthbert but easily twice his weight. Alain grimaces.

“You like me, then?” he asks her, seemingly unfazed.

She laughs a surprisingly musical laugh, and Cuthbert smiles and lifts a bony hand to her full cheek. She catches it. “Silly boy.”

His face falls.

“You would have done it, too, though I could crack you like a twig. That’s something.”

Cuthbert brightens a little but speaks seriously, “I asked for somebody who liked me. If I’d had other conditions, I would have said. In Gilead, I used to say I wouldn’t lie with someone as old as my mother, but I am older now myself, and she is gone. If you like me, I will lie with you, and gladly.” He tries again to touch her cheek, and this time she lets him.

“You’re sweet. I suppose I like you well enough,” she allows, “but you are not for me. Too skinny.” She smiles. “Too pretty.” She makes a gagging sound.

He laughs.

“You’ll make a lovely match with one of the younger girls, I think, but they’re not used to choosing for themselves.”

“So you’re going to help them decide?”

“Now he’s got it. Not so silly after all, eh?” 

This last is directed toward Alain. 

“Perhaps not all the time,” he plays along, “He takes his pleasure seriously, at least.” 

Alain is not particularly fond of soft bodies, enormous breasts, and wide, matronly hips, but this woman has wit, and she does not like pretty men. Perhaps she should be Alain’s companion for the night?

“Yes, I watched him eat,” she says. 

Cuthbert laughs again.

“Alright, girls, here’s what we’ve got. He’s very pretty, much too thin. He’s walked a long way, so he’s probably stronger than he looks.” 

She reaches toward his guns, and he catches her wrist. 

“Good reflexes, of course,” she continues, pulling her arm out of his loosening grip and moving it toward his crotch instead of his guns. 

“He’s sweet,” she says, “mentioned his mother.” 

Her hand ghosts over his crotch, and he catches it again.

“Please don’t talk about my mother while you touch my cock.” He raises his eyebrows and smiles crookedly.

She nods, and he releases her hand.

“He’s sweet,” she says again, pressing her palm against him in earnest.

Cuthbert blushes. The woman laughs again, and Alain hopes that it covers his gasp.

She touches his flushed cheek. “Sweet,” she repeats, rubbing him through his trousers, “but no virgin. Fairly average size,” she shakes her head a little - Cuthbert rolls his eyes - “but nice and hard.” 

She withdraws her hand and steps away, leaving Alain and the gilly girls with a pretty good impression of Cuthbert’s average sized, nice, hard cock. Quickly, Alain remembers himself and looks up into Cuthbert’s dark brown eyes. His pupils are large in his arousal, and he is smiling at Alain with something like bemused incredulity. Alain hopes the expression is because of the corpulent whore’s bravado and not because he has just caught his lifelong friend staring at his cock.

“If you’re so sweet, can you be gentle?” a soft voice asks.

The gillies have conferred, and a very young, very pretty, red haired girl is now standing a few feet in front of the rest. 

Cuthbert breaks eye contact with Alain and turns to smile at the girl. “Of course,” he says, “I like gentle very much.”

“You’re very nice to look at,” says the girl, “Anybody would be glad to go with you.”

“And you?” he asks.

“I like you, but I haven’t . . .” she trails off.

“Does that cost extra?” Alain asks so Cuthbert doesn’t have to. He knows some men are keen on virgins, but he doesn’t see the attraction himself. Why pay to lie with a woman who does not know how to please a man?

“No,” she finds her voice again, “But I can understand if you want someone more experienced.”

“Do you like me?” Cuthbert asks.

“Yes,” she whispers. Then she smiles, and Alain can see her own desire surface. “I want to make you feel so good,” she says, then claps her hand over her mouth.

Cuthbert looks her up and down, admiring her smooth skin, soft, small breasts, narrow waist, swelling hips. He is still visibly hard. He licks his lips.

“Well then,” he smiles, sweet and wicked all at once, “I think I like you, too.”

He holds out his hand and waits for her to come forward and take it. Then he leads her past their table so that he can he pick up his pack.

“Sweet dreams, Alain,” he says and winks.

He grins at the giddy, nervous girl and cocks his head. She giggles and breaks into a run, pulling him eagerly up the stairs to her room.

Alain is the last man left. The gillies eye him speculatively, but none of them approach. 

“What is your name?” he asks the fat one who manhandled his friend.

“Nora,” she replies. “What? Do you like me?” she replies in mockery of Cuthbert.

Alain laughs, “I like your manner,” he tells her, “and I like that you don’t like pretty men. Not many would prefer me over him, and that is reason enough. I am beginning to understand his tactic. Everyone wants to be wanted.”

She looks at him, “You’ve pretty eyes, my dear, and very pretty hair, but you’re more my type it’s true.” She approaches him and runs a small but meaty hand along his bicep. “I like you, and I’ll gladly have you if you don’t find someone else.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not all down here all the time. Look just a little longer; you might still find a better match.” 

Graceful in spite of her size, Nora slinks toward a table in a corner where some of the whores have been sharing a bottle of booze. She smiles at Alain, pours herself a few fingers of whiskey, and takes a long, slow sip.

Alain smiles back and humors her, scanning the room again but seeing no one new, no one who might make him feel wanted, who wouldn’t wish they had taken the chance to go with Cuthbert instead of ceding him to their nervous, virgin friend. He sighs. He still has some ale left. When that is gone, enough time will have passed, and he can approach Nora again. 

When he looks back toward the table, however, a young man is standing there, his hands on the back of the chair across from Alain’s. He is close to Alain’s own age, probably a little younger. Like Alain, he is blond, but whereas Alain’s hair bleaches yellow and his skin tans in the sun, this boy is very pale, his hair much lighter than Alain’s even at the end of a long summer. 

“May I join you?” he asks.

Alain shrugs and watches him over his ale. He is surprised he could sneak up on him like this, even with so many people in the room. 

The young man smiles, just a little, and removes a flask from the waistband of his trousers. He takes a swig and puts it on the table between them in an unspoken offer. 

“I never would have guessed you’d go for Nora,” he says, “But I understood your reasons when you gave them - everyone wants to be wanted.”

“Have you been here all along, then?”

“No,” he says, “I only caught the last. Is he very handsome then, your friend that Nora didn’t fancy?”

Alain laughs. “He is. I would never tell him so, but standing next to him makes me feel foolish in a place like this.”

“Because you think you don’t compare, or because you wish he’d lie with you instead?”

Alain looks at him sharply and realizes, suddenly, that this boy is one of them, and not a fellow customer as he had first naively assumed. He had been able to creep up on Alain because he is barefoot. 

Now Nora’s comments make much more sense. He remembers Miss Ethel whispering in Jamie’s ear; she had been watching Jamie watch him watching Cuthbert. Now he is being offered something he had never contemplated before. 

Alain knows his attraction to women is lukewarm, though he has never had trouble performing - the comfort offered by a warm and willing body has always been enough. If he’s honest with himself, Alain knows he has only ever had eyes for Cuthbert. That Cuthbert was unattainable was all that mattered; he has never considered seeking pleasure with another man.

The young man takes Alain’s shocked silence as offense. His wide eyes dart down to Alain’s guns. He holds up his palms in a placating gesture. 

“I cry your pardon,” he stammers, “Ethel thought . . . I’ll go.” 

He stands and reaches for his flask. Alain’s hand closes over his.

“Stay,” he says firmly, “I do not take offense. What is your name?”

Relieved, the young man sits. Alain releases his hand.

“Miles,” he says.

“Well, Miles,” Alain begins, “You caught me by surprise.”

“But if you so desire your friend, surely you have looked at other pretty men. You cannot have imagined there were no others who might share your taste. You merely lacked the opportunity.” 

In spite of his bold words, Miles sounds confused. Their experiences and expectations are so at odds that Alain laughs.

“I suppose I never thought about it.”

“What, never?”

Alain shrugs. “But I’m thinking about it now.”

Miles smiles. His smile is not as wide as Cuthbert’s, nor as sweet, but his lips are fuller and his green eyes are kind. He leans forward so that his loose, unlaced tunic hangs open to reveal his collarbone and the first hints of the flat planes of his chest. 

“And what do you think?” he asks.

“I’m wondering why I never thought of it before.” 

The flirtatious words come with a satisfying ease that is new to Alain, new and dangerous. Immediately, he realizes that his statement was a lie. Perceptive as he is, quiet, secretive Jamie is clearly no threat to Alain (he may have even had a hand in sending Miles down tonight), but what if Roland should find out? Or Cuthbert? They would think him a disgrace for even considering what Miles has to offer, and, once that indiscretion were known, they would perceive the way he looks and acts around Cuthbert in a new, unpleasant light. Though it pleases him to play the fool for Roland, Cuthbert is especially adept at making connections between one fact or action and another. If Alain has never previously considered the possibility of sex with other men it was out of an unconscious sense of self preservation. It amuses Alain that, while the touch sometimes allows him to read the thoughts and intentions of others with incredible accuracy, he can still be sometimes unaware of his own desires and motivations. His smile turns wry.

Miles examines his expression. “I cannot answer that,” he says, “but I can guess why you never acted on your desires. You needn't worry. Every gilly understands the importance of discretion. Nora will be glad to tell your friends you were with her.”

Alain looks at Nora, leaning back in her chair and watching them, her whiskey glass balanced on top of her gigantic breasts. She smiles. 

Alain finishes his ale. He picks up Miles’ flask and takes a swallow of whiskey. It burns, mingling with the arousal that has been growing ever since he realized what this pretty young man was. He hands it back across the table, taking a moment to admire the slender length of Miles’ pale hand as he receives it. Like Cuthbert’s, Miles’ hand is delicate but masculine. Alain resolves to put Cuthbert out of his head.

“Alright,” he says to Miles, “I accept whatever you are offering.”

“Good,” replies Miles. 

He stands and again holds out that delicate masculine hand, this time for Alain to grasp - he does. He shoulders his pack and lets Miles lead him to the stairs. Before they turn the corner, he looks back at Nora.

“Thank you,” he says.

She lifts her glass.


	5. Chapter 5

It is not until the door to Miles’ room clicks softly closed behind Alain that the reality of the situation really sinks in. He stops just inside the door, letting go of Miles’ fine boned hand, and drops his pack with a thud. Standing still, he watches his companion - pretty, slight, but very male - continue a few more feet into the room and sit on the edge of his bed. He reaches his hand out to Alain, who remains, frozen, by the door. 

In the silence that follows, they can hear the faint, high sound of a woman crying in the room next door. 

Miles drops his inviting hand and tenses, looking toward the sound. Alain is not trying to touch him, but he is giving off crashing waves of worry edging on panic that Alain cannot help but feel.

“Do you need to leave?” he asks, momentarily, shamefully thankful that this woman’s distress might give him a way out of this insane thing he’s agreed to.

Miles looks back at him, green eyes bright. “That’s Sandra’s room. It’s her first time. She’s so scared . . .” He trails off and looks again toward the wall.

“Is she blonde?” Alain asks. It doesn’t look like this is going to be an out for him after all, but he has to make sure.

“What?” Miles snaps his head back. “No. Ginger.”

“Then she’s with Cuthbert,” he confides, “He asked who liked him, and they all conferred and this pretty little redhead came and said she did. Don’t worry. He’s sweet and kind and handsome. He likes taking care of people and making them happy. He’ll make sure that she’s alright.”

Miles’ worry sinks to a hum but does not dissipate completely. Alain supposes his own nervousness is no worse. It’s the best they’re going to do. 

“He’s the one you’re hot for, then.” Miles jerks his head toward the wall. “The man with Sandra in the next room. Cuthbert.”

Alain nods.

“What’s he like?”

“I said - he’s kind.”

“Does he look like me?”

“He’s built a little like you, but his hair and eyes are dark, and he is taller. A little taller than me and very slim . . . slimmer than he should be, now.”

“Pretty?”

Alain laughs. “Yes, pretty. Very pretty in the face . . .” he is about to go on, but Miles interrupts:

“Would you force him? Could you?”

Alain goes cold. Of course he wouldn’t, but, against his will, he finds himself considering the second half of Miles’ question. Alain is stronger and heavier than Cuthbert, can almost always beat him in a wrestling match. And Cuthbert trusts him deeply. So deeply that he has let him play around in his mind, practicing his control of the touch, even drawing on his energy to amplify its powers. In these practice sessions, he has been able to influence Cuthbert to do all sorts of little, silly things, and they have laughed about it later. Cuthbert has the strength of mind to keep him out, he’s almost certain, but he doesn’t. It would be so easy to lure him away so they were on their own, to touch his mind. It is impossible to use the touch to make a person do something entirely against their nature, but Cuthbert already loves him and wants him to be happy. If there were even the slightest hint of sexual attraction . . . 

Alain finds the realization almost tempting, and he is nearly sick. “No. The answer is no. I would not force him, though it’s possible I could. To lose his love and trust . . .” He shakes his head. “The idea is unthinkable.”

Miles nods and pulls out his flask. “Good thing you have me, then.” He takes a swig then hands it to Alain, sits back on the edge of his bed, and waits. The sobs have ended in the other room, and his worry seems to be gone.

Alain drinks, too, and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “I don't know what to do,” he admits at last.

“I'll do whatever you want,” Miles says, unhelpfully.

“What do people usually want?”

“People usually fuck me.” He spreads his legs a little and leans back on his elbows.

“But not always.”

“Sometimes they want to be sucked. Sometimes they even want me to fuck them. Like I said, whatever you want.”

“Do you get women?”

“They don’t come here very often. Tommy takes them when they want a man. Women: they are not for me.”

“I wondered if you loved the girl next door.”

“As a sister,” he admits, “say true. And you?”

“My cock likes women well enough, but my heart belongs to Cuthbert.”

“Perhaps your cock likes men a little more than well enough?”

Alain laughs softly. “Let's find out.”

Miles smiles then and pats the bed beside him. Alain joins him there.

“It's odd that I am wearing shoes and you are not.”

“Take them off then. I could put some on, but then we would be going backwards.”

Alain smiles and removes his boots.

“Would you like to kiss me?” Miles asks.

“You do that?”

“If it pleases you. I only offer to people I like.” 

“Alright.”

Miles leans forward slowly, eyes closed. Alain closes his, too, and their lips meet.

It's a gentle, tentative kiss, like Alain might share with a woman, but he can tell that Miles’ mouth is larger, and his beard catches on the invisible stubble on his cheek. And he smells different. It goes to his head.

Miles pulls back. “Again?” he asks.

This time, Alain leans in. Miles opens his mouth, and Alain’s tongue pokes inside. Miles’ meets it, and the kiss becomes more heated. Alain groans, and Miles leans back, encouraging him to press him down into the bed. 

Breathless, Alain pulls up. He is leaning over Miles now, and the young man's lips are red. “Fuck,” he murmurs.

“I did offer,” Miles reminds him. He takes the wrist of Alain’s free hand and presses the hand it to his own groin where Alain can feel that he is getting hard. Then he palms Alain’s erection through his jeans. “Fuck me. I can feel how much you want to.”

“Doesn't it hurt?”

Miles shrugs. “Hardly, if you do it right. I'll teach you how. Yes?” He presses into Alain’s palm.

“Yes.”

Miles squeezes the crotch of his jeans and pecks him on the lips. “Take your clothes off then.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Alright,” Alain agrees. He stands, and Miles sits again on the edge of his bed, watching.

Alain removes his shirt and trousers. He unbuckles his guns, slings his gun belt over his shoulder, and waits for Miles’ turn to undress.

Miles rakes his eyes over Alain's body - strong muscles, curling yellow hair, many scars. Alain is used to being naked with other men, and he finds himself less self-conscious than he is with women, who, he always worries, might blanch at his scars or dislike his hairiness, wishing they were with a smoother skinned, prettier man.

Miles stands and draws his index finger along a scar on Alain’s chest. His other fingers trail along after, combing through his chest hair and scraping over his nipple. Alain gasps and hardens further.

“You have seen more action than I have,” Miles says. He smiles fleetingly and steps back to remove his own clothes.

He pulls his loose tunic up over his head, revealing a pale chest with a small patch of dull blond hair sprouting in the middle. He has a couple of scars himself, and Alain decides he does not want to know what action he has seen, or how he came to be here.

Miles unlaces his trousers and kicks them aside. He is fairly hard himself, his cock slightly longer and thicker than Alain’s. He notices Alain looking and reaches down to touch himself, working himself fully hard. Then he meets Alain’s eye and reaches for him.

Nervous again, Alain steps forward, hands at his sides. Miles kisses him again, messily, and gathers their two cocks together.

“Oh,” Alain whispers and presses against him.

Miles encourages him, drawing him back onto the bed until they are in more or less the same position as before, with Alain leaning on one elbow over Miles, though this time their naked members are rubbing together.

Their hands are tangled down there, too, now stroking both their cocks together, now clamped around each others’. Miles bucks a little and groans. Alain answers, burying his face in the young man’s neck. Miles’ hand slides off his cock and takes hold of Alain’s wrist, guiding his fingers further down, behind his balls to his anus. 

“Want to have me now?” he asks.

Alain lifts himself up and looks him in the eye. His lips are parted, and his pale eyebrows are raised in anticipation of the answer. Alain nods.

“Right,” says Miles. The small smile slides across his face again, and he scoots up toward the head of the bed, out from under Alain, who takes the opportunity to lay his guns out on the bedside table furthest from Miles, just within his own reach.

Miles turns onto his stomach and leans off the side of the bed to search for something underneath it. Alain admires his smooth bottom and the the way he can see the lower part of his compressed balls peeking out between his spread legs. He brings his hand to his mouth to make sure he is not drooling.

When Miles sits up, he is holding a little bottle out to Alain. “I’m going to have you take me from behind,” he says matter-of-factly, “but you can get me ready while I’m facing you if you like. It might be easier to talk, and you’ll see that I’m not hurt.”

Alain nods again. “I’d like that.”

Miles smiles. “Good.” He presses the bottle into Alain’s hand, leans back on his pillow, and spreads his legs obscenely wide, canting his hips so Alain can easily see and reach his puckered opening. “Come closer. Let’s get started.”

On his knees, Alain shuffles up the bed until his is between Miles’ outstretched legs.

“Now, the trick is to use plenty of that,” he points at the bottle, “and to use your fingers first.” He makes several lude gestures with his pointing finger. “Yes?”

Alain opens the bottle and pours a creamy, oily liquid into his hand. It reminds him a little of a woman’s sexual juices. “I think I understand,” he says, looking down at his hand. He looks up at Miles. “You’ll tell me if I hurt you?”

“I’ll tell you if you do anything I don’t like.”

“Alright,” Alain says, “Good enough.”

He slicks his index finger and gently presses it to Miles’ opening, rubbing the oil around. 

“That’s it,” says Miles, “Now inside.”

Slowly, Alain pushes one thick finger in, and Miles’ body accepts it greedily, clamping down on it with such hot tightness that Alain feels his cock pulse in response. 

Silence falls as he explores the tight passage, pulling in and out and round and round. In the next room, a cascade of giggles begins high enough to make it through the wall.

“This part will be easier with me than it would be with your Cuthbert,” Miles informs him.

Alain glares. “Do not speak of him now. He is not here.”

“He’s . . .” Miles gestures towards the wall.

“This is between us.”

“I cry your pardon,” Miles says, “Add another finger, then.”

Alain draws his finger out and pours more oil into his hand until his index and middle fingers are thoroughly slick. Gently, he pushes them inside of Miles, who arches his back.

“Reach in deep and up,” he suggests.

Alain does. His other hand takes hold of Miles at the junction of his hip so he can push in deep, and he feels a subtle bump inside the passage.

“There,” Miles says, a little breathless now, “That’s what makes it feel really good.”

“For you?” Alain had no idea. He presses the spot again and again.

Miles nods, still breathless. “A lot of men don’t care when they’re with a boy . . . or a whore . . . but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You should fuck me now.”

“You’re still so tight.”

Miles shrugs. “I know what I’m doing. You’d probably need to stretch me out a little more if I weren’t so used to it.”

Although he’s grateful Miles refrained from mentioning Cuthbert’s name this time, he feels compelled to tell him, “Cuthbert will never let me do this.”

Miles presses down on Alain’s fingers. “Perhaps not,” he concedes, “but don’t think you couldn’t seduce a man. You’ve got a ruggedness that’s dead attractive, but you’re kind. And young, behind that beard. If I am both your first and last, I’ll eat my sock.”

“A safe wager, as I’m not convinced you have any.”

Miles laughs, “Of course I do. And shoes as well. Pull your fingers out and I’ll turn over.”

Alain leans in to kiss him first, drawing his fingers in and out and playing against his prostate. Miles moans.

Finally, Alain withdraws and sits back on his haunches while Miles turns over onto his hands and knees, legs spread just far enough for Alain to fit between them. As Alain lathers lubricant over his prick, Miles lowers himself onto his elbows and pushes his ass in the air.

“Start off slowly,” he advises, “so I can adjust.”

Alain lines himself up with Miles’ entrance and pushes, gasping shakily as the young man’s body accepts his straining cock and slick, tight warmth envelops it. When he is all the way inside, he stills, waiting for Miles to tell him he can move. The wait is excruciating.

“Alright,” Miles whispers, “Move. Slow, like I said, then . . . well . . .”

Slowly, Alain pulls part way out then thrusts back in. It feels so good. He pulls out again, and in, feeling Miles’ muscles rapidly acclimate to his thrusts. Next time, he goes a little faster, and both he and Miles moan. 

“Am I hitting it?” Alain asks.

Miles shakes his head. “No, but it’s still nice.”

Alain frowns and adjusts his angle, holding tight to Miles’ hips. He thrusts a little harder now, and toward the front of Miles’ body.

“That’s it,” Miles gasps, “Fuck.”

Alain interprets the last word as a request. He grunts and moans as he thrusts harder and faster, slamming against Miles’ prostate. 

Breathing harshly now, Miles pushes back against him. Words slip out with some of the breaths, and Alain thinks he hears, “There, yes, there.”

Alain comes.

His own breathing slows, but Miles’ desperate gasps continue. Alain pulls out and lies down on the side closest to his guns. Miles doesn’t move yet. His forehead is pressed against his folded arms. Alain runs a hand through the young man's pale hair.

“Thank you. That was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. How shall I help you finish?”

Miles rolls onto his back. His red cock reaches for the ceiling. His breathing is still shaky but no longer comes in gasps as his desperation to come subsides slightly.

“Well,” he says, “You could jerk me off.”

Alain reaches for him, but Miles catches his hand.

“You nearly did me with your cock alone, you know. That’s very good.”

“Good,” Alain says, and reaches again for his companion’s cock, but his hand is still restrained. “What?”

“That was just one option. You could also suck me if you want to see what it is like,” he pauses to let Alain consider this (he finds himself intrigued). “Or I could fuck you . . . if you want.”

Alain sucks in a breath and holds it. Does he? Cuthbert is Roland’s right hand. If they were ever to do this together - Alain almost laughs - that is the way it would be. Alain pictures himself in Miles’ place, telling a nervous Cuthbert what to do to make sure he wouldn’t hurt him. He wonders how long it would take for him to come again tonight. After everything he’s seen and done, he is still young, as Miles pointed out.

On a foolish impulse, Alain guides the touch toward Cuthbert in the next room. He softly caresses his friend’s mind, seeking only for the most basic impressions. Has he come yet? No. He can tell he is achingly hard, so far denying his release. She has, though; there is an emotional satisfaction in Cuthbert’s mind that is connected to, yet separate from, his physical desire. 

He returns to himself to find Miles looking at him seriously. He cannot know about the touch, but he guesses what is on his mind.

“He outranks you, doesn’t he?”

“He is the closest to our dinh.”

Miles takes a deep, shaking breath. “I could take you from behind; you can pretend it’s him.” 

When Alain doesn’t answer right away, he continues, speaking rapidly, “Or you could jerk me, or I could do it. I don’t really need to come at all, of course. You are the paying customer.” He bites his lip.

Alain covers one of his shaking hands with his own. “It’s important to me that you do.” He raises his eyebrows until Miles nods. “I am tempted by your offer, but I should not indulge myself in such a fantasy.”

To his surprise, Miles laughs. “You’re in a brothel. Indulge. Or don’t. It makes no difference to me.”

Though they are still lying side by side, Alain feels Miles emotionally drawing away. Through the touch, he gets the strong impression that the boy thinks he has crossed a line by acting too familiar. 

“You have been a good friend to me tonight,” Alain is quick to reassure him.

Miles rolls his head towards him and blinks.

Alain leans forward, and they kiss. It is not long before the kiss becomes heated, filled with tongue and teeth and open mouths. 

Gently, Miles tugs on Alain’s wrist, which Alain realizes he is still holding - no wonder the touch between them was so strong - and guides it to his slightly flagging cock. Alain squeezes and strokes it like he likes himself and is gratified to feel it grow and harden once again. 

Miles moans.

Alain stops and looks into his flushed and red lipped face. “Would you still like to fuck me?”

“Only if you want.”

Alain takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I want.” He sits back on his haunches, and Miles sits up.

Miles cups his face and kisses him. “You should pretend. I don’t mind. I want to make you come so hard.”

“Alright,” Alain says.

“On your knees. I’m built like him, you said?”

Alain kneels, facing the headboard. “More or less.”

“My hands, are they like his?” He positions himself between Alain’s legs and runs long, slender fingers down his back and around his chest to tease his nipples.

“Yes.”

Miles kisses the back of his neck. “Good. Now, relax and think of Cuthbert. I’ll keep quiet.”

“No,” Alain says.

“No?”

“I’ll think of him - how could I not - but I don’t want to forget that it is you.”

“Alright,” says Miles. He brings his wonderful, erotic hands down to Alain’s thighs and draws them a little further apart, then begins to describe what he is doing. “I’m going to use a lot of this oil and put a finger in you, like you did for me.”

Alain can hear him open up the bottle and feels the liquid press of the dripping finger on his virgin hole. “Oh fuck,” he mumbles.

“I can stop at any time.”

“Keep going. I want to know what this is like.”

Suddenly, Miles presses close to him, draping himself over his back. “I want to make you love it.” Then, just as suddenly, his warm weight is gone, and his finger is worming its way inside. It burns, in spite of the lubricant. “Squeeze a little, then relax,” Miles advises.

Alain does. Miles continues, gently and wetly, to finger him until the feeling is no longer painful - only strange. The finger reaches deeper. Are this young man’s hands as long as Cuthbert’s, even though he’s not as tall? His cock might be a little bigger . . . Alain feels himself begin to tense at the thought of something that large inside him when it seems he can barely take a skinny finger and shuts down that line of thinking. He concentrates on imagining Cuthbert instead.

Yes, these fingers are as long as Cuthbert’s. He would be at least as gentle, searching right away for that supposedly wonderful bump inside Alain. Miles finds it. “Oh fuck,” Alain says again.

“See what I mean?” Miles leans forward to press a kiss against his back.

“Oh fuck yes,” he says. “Don’t stop.”

Miles smiles against his skin and strokes his prostate for a while before drawing out again.

“I’m going to add another finger,” he warns.

Alain imagines Cuthbert’s two long digits dripping with oil, stretching his entrance until it’s ready for his cock. The fingers press inside and fuck him, back and forth, grazing his prostate and making him moan.

“Am I ready yet?” he asks.

“You need another finger,” Miles murmurs, “maybe two. I need to make sure you’re not hurt.”

“I’m ready for that, then,” Alain tells him.

“Yes,” says Miles. 

The two fingers withdraw. Next come three, and Alain feels himself relax around them as they stretch him out. 

“He’d want to get you so ready for his cock that he could just slide in,” Miles guesses.

“Yes,” Alain agrees.

“I’m going to put my pinky in you, too.” He pulls the three fingers out, adds more oil to his hand, and slowly presses in four.

Alain shudders, and Miles stops until he can relax.

“My cock isn’t quite as big as this. And it will be smoother going in. Have I made you as ready as he would?”

“I want your cock inside me.”

Miles stills. “Fuck,” he breathes, “I’m going to be using this to get myself hard for a long time.”

Alain laughs. “I’m flattered.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

Alain is practically whining from the loss of Miles’ fingers when his slick cock begins to push inside. He imagines Cuthbert leaning over him, dark eyes wide, thin lips parted as he presses them (as Miles is doing now) between his shoulder blades. 

“He should be honored that you want this.”

“I want to give you pleasure,” Alain says, as he would to Cuthbert.

“Shall I pretend I’m him now?” Miles asks, a smile in his voice as he carefully begins to thrust.

“No. I want to give you pleasure, too. But you can say his name.”

“Cuthbert would be more concerned with your pleasure,” he asserts and thrusts harder, deeper, against Alain’s prostate.

“Yes!” he cries.

Miles continues to thrust hard and deep, and Alain begins to moan. 

“Touch yourself,” Miles suggests.

Alain shifts his weight onto his left arm so that he can bring his right hand to his now hard cock.

“Cuthbert would love it when you touch yourself. He’d love that he was making you feel so good inside that you couldn’t keep your hand off you own cock.”

Alain whimpers, and Miles fucks him hard.

Eventually, when Alain is about to come, Miles slows and brings his hand around to shoo away Alain’s.

“He’ll want to be the one to make you come, though.” He squeezes Alain’s cock and strokes it in time to his own deliberate thrusts against Alain’s prostate. “Cuthbert would want you to come first.”

Alain can imagine him doing just this, drawing Alain’s pleasure from both inside and outside of his body, desperate for Alain to come before the tight heat of Alain’s channel drives him over the edge. 

Unable to resist, he reaches out to touch Cuthbert again and finds the very feeling he imagines - Cuthbert is waiting for one more breathless cry from his partner before he allows himself his own release. Alain imagines that he is the one Cuthbert is waiting for and comes all over Miles’ hand. When his senses return, he realizes that Cuthbert has come, too, and quickly ends the connection. Miles thrusts a few more times, rapidly, and follows.

Carefully, he pulls out of Alain and slips off the bed, taking his bottle of lubricant with him. A moment later, he returns with another wet cloth, with which he cleans them both up.

Miles starts to pull back the bedspread, and Alain rises to let him before collapsing again on the clean sheets, next to the table with his guns. Miles hovers awkwardly nearby.

“Am I not supposed to stay?” Alain asks.

Miles shakes his head. “I mean, you are. Thank you - you were very nice.”

“And so were you. I cannot say how much I enjoyed the experience.”

“You liked it more than ‘well enough?’” he teases.

Alain nods. “You know I did.”

Miles, smiling now, is still standing anxiously by the bed.

“I am to stay, and you are not?” Alain guesses.

“It’s really up to you. You probably don’t want one of your company to find me in bed with you.”

Alain grimaces.

“And,” Miles continues, embarrassed, “I want to check on Sandra, if you think your Cuthbert would allow it.”

“Ah. I understand. Go on, then, with my thanks. I told you already that Cuthbert is a kind man; he will understand as well.”

“Thank you.” Miles bustles about his room tucking away his dirty clothes and putting on clean trousers and a button down shirt. He pulls out a pair of socks and shakes them at Alain. “You see?”

“You’ll eat them yet, I reckon.”

Miles shakes his head. He pulls the socks on but foregoes shoes and takes hold of the door handle.

“I’ll say good night then. I hope you are able to sleep, and that you’re not too sore tomorrow.” 

He opens the door a fraction and slips into the hallway before Alain can answer. The door clicks shut.

Lamps sit on each of the bedside tables, and Alain puts them both out. He pulls the blankets up to his chest and lies there, staring at the ceiling in the dark.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of spoilers for _Wizard and Glass_ in this chapter, as well as non-explicit references to past underage sex.

Cuthbert loves sex with women. He loves the combination of soft curves and hard bones and the way their bodies are so different from his. He loves the way they smell, the way they taste. He loves how easily he makes them come when he licks between their legs the way they never expect him to. He loves how warm and wet they get, their organs puffy and open with arousal before they welcome him inside. He loves burying himself inside them and coming with his cock wrapped up in their hot, snug channel, his narrow hips and bony shoulders wrapped up in their tight embrace, his nose in their sweet, sweaty hair, and his nipples pressed against their soft breasts.

His first time, fifteen years old and still a little gaunt from the taxing journey back from Mejis, he had come almost immediately in the arms of a whore some ten years his senior - perhaps just a little older than Cuthbert is now. She had laughed at him, though not unkindly, and stroked his hair and patted his cheek and said, ‘You’ll last longer next time, pretty boy.’

‘Would that have pleased you more?’ he’d asked.

‘It matters not, silly,’ she said, ‘I’m here for your pleasure.’

‘But women come too, don’t they? I’m sure I didn’t make you come.’ 

He had been disappointed, but only partly because he hadn’t been a good lover on his first try. He wanted to be better his next time, and he guessed that lasting longer was not all there was to it. He wanted to learn, but she was cooing at him and coddling him like a child. He had just helped Roland drive an army through a hole in the world while his best friend’s sweetheart burned alive - he had taken lives with his slingshot and his gun and his careful execution of a deadly, cunning plan. He had faced a frightening, supernatural power that had captured Roland’s mind and brought his friend back safely to Gilead. Surely he was man enough to learn how to make a woman come.

He had thought briefly about making such an argument to the gilly with him on the bed, but he knew enough about the amused expressions of older women to realize that cataloging the reasons why he was a man would only convince her fully he was not one. So, to get what he wanted, he decided instead to play upon her existing impression. He gave her his best sad puppy dog eyes, arranged his mouth into a pout, and said, softly and earnestly, ‘Won’t you teach me how to please you?’

She had looked into his big brown eyes and laughed again, and he had clenched his teeth and looked away, reconciling himself to disappointment. He supposed that must have been what convinced her, because she took hold of his chin and looked into his eyes again, considering. She ran her thumb along his lower lip, and he let his mouth fall open so the tip slipped just inside. Tentatively, he had touched it with his tongue.

She had laughed again, and covered her face with her other hand.

‘I am in earnest,’ Cuthbert had said, his teeth and tongue brushing against her fingertip.

‘I suppose you are,’ she murmured. 

Then, hand still on his chin, she had replaced her thumb with her mouth and kissed him deeply, which Cuthbert had not done before and was sure that he was bad at. He tried to follow her lead but mostly remained passive, cataloging every movement of her lips and tongue. She pulled back, hummed, and kissed him a second time so he could show what he had learned. This was much more fun than Cort’s lessons, and, for once, he seemed to earn his teacher’s approval.

‘Alright, pretty boy’ she said, ‘Let me show you what else you can do with that wicked mouth.’

Cuthbert had spent a lot of time in brothels in his teens, learning everything he could. He had learned how to please women with his cock and tongue and hands, and he had learned what pleased him, too. He learned that if he could make his partner laugh and smile he would leave feeling satisfied and content, especially if she held him in her arms until morning. But, if she didn’t find him charming, his orgasm would leave him feeling so empty he was nearly physically sick. 

When he realized this trend, Cuthbert had been horrified by his emotional neediness, which his friends and elders would no doubt consider a shameful weakness in a man. Whores were there to help boys learn not to embarrass themselves in bed and to help men relieve distracting urges when they could not ask their wives or had no wives to ask. The service they provided had nothing to do with love, and Cuthbert further disparaged himself for selfishly and unfairly desiring affection from a woman he was paying to provide him with physical pleasure.

Usually, Cuthbert would have confessed a newfound weakness to Roland or discussed a personal frustration with Alain, but he had been reluctant to do either in this case. His apparent inability to enjoy sex without emotion should have little bearing on his role as Roland’s right hand man, and his own troubles would seem trivial in light of his best friend’s tragic recent history with Susan. He had been less certain of his reasons for avoiding counsel with Alain; they seemed to revolve around a nebulous, unreasonable fear that Alain might touch him over the course of the conversation and discover something even worse, though Cuthbert’s usually vivid imagination had, at the time, offered no ideas what that worse thing might be. Perhaps, Cuthbert had decided, he was simply not meant to talk to Alain about sex.

And so, desperate to spill his secret to someone, Cuthbert had taken his problem to Cort. 

By the time he reached his former teacher’s rooms, he was grinning from ear to ear at the thought of his own genius: Cort knew more about prostitutes than anyone. He we already aware of all of Cuthbert’s other shortcomings and had never hesitated to berate him for them, so this newly discovered emotional weakness would come as no surprise. Furthermore, though Cuthbert genuinely trusted and respected his teacher, he knew he would not take his disappointment or outrage too much to heart, not after so many years of practice. Best of all, Cort was a slobbering mess. He had never recovered from the severe beating he had taken when Roland won his guns, and he was unlikely even to recognize Cuthbert, much less remember anything he said.

Cort’s nurse had not been surprised to see him - he had been to visit many times before for, he hoped, less selfish reasons. Without a trace of squeamishness, he helped her change his teacher’s sheets and wipe the sweat and drool from his sour skin, then he urged her to take some time for herself while he sat and watched her charge. 

‘You’re a sweet boy,’ she told him as she left.

Cuthbert sat beside the bed and turned his chair so Cort could see him, though his expression remained blank and glassy eyed. He took a deep breath and began to speak as a Christian follower of the Man Jesus might speak to his confessor.

Though there was no one else to hear, Cuthbert had been speaking softly, so he heard immediately when Cort’s mouth opened with a sticky pop. Brow furrowed, Cuthbert scooted his chair closer. Cort’s expression was no longer blank, though his gaze was still glassy. Could he see at all? Cuthbert took his hand in case he could not.

‘Yes?’ he asked, ‘Did you want to say something?’

To his surprise, Cort tightened his grip on his hand and tugged him closer. Cuthbert leaned his elbow on the bed and put his face close to Cort’s. 

A trail of gravelly gurgles poured from his lips. Eventually, he had managed some words: ‘Shut up, Cuth . . .’ 

Cort’s lips opened and closed, fishlike, but no more sound came out.

A startled laugh spilled out of Cuthbert’s mouth. ‘One moment,’ he murmured.

He had dropped his teacher’s hand and reached for a pitcher of water on the nearby nightstand. Too quickly, he poured some in a glass, splashing several drops upon the floor. Then he had leaned over Cort, braced one arm under his thick neck and heavy, bald head to lift them, and brought the glass to his lips. Cort drank a few sips, then turned his head so Cuthbert spilled more water down his chin. He wiped it up and sat, again taking hold of Cort’s hand.

'I cry your pardon,' Cuthbert had said, 'You did not know me last time I was here.'

Cort had squeezed his hand and spoken in cracked, slurred speech: 'Today you talk so much. Dreamy fanciful nonsense. Could not be anyone else.'

Cuthbert laughed again. 'Aye,' he slipped for a moment into Hambry speech, 'say true.'

'Not your teacher anymore,' Cort croaked.

'No,' Cuthbert agreed, 'Again, I cry your pardon. I was selfish to trouble you with my nonsense.'

Cort rolled his head back and forth on the pillow. 'Not your teacher. I will tell you something. Come closer, boy. No one must hear.'

'There is nobody here to hear.' Cuthbert smiled at his own line but leaned close anyway.

‘You are strong,' Cort had whispered, crushing Cuthbert’s delicate hand in what remained of his meaty grip, 'Stronger than they think. Because of your heart. Hone your skills. Kill. But do not let them break you. Water.’ 

He released Cuthbert’s hand, and he poured another glass and helped Cort drink it in silence. As he replaced the glass, Cort had spoken more loudly, with a smile in his cracking voice.

‘Lots of girls will like that pretty face. Fuck ones that still like your lips once words come out.’ He wheezed what Cuthbert thought might be a laugh at his expense, then turned his head away to rest in silence.

It had been excellent advice.

Tonight, though, the empty feeling was back, even though the sex and the girl and been lovely and they had had a good rapport. They are lying in the bed now, her head on his chest, her auburn hair spilling over his shoulder, her small, warm form snuggled into his side. It’s nice, but he won’t be able to sleep until he finds the reason for the empty feeling and makes it go away.

Was it the tears? The moment they had entered the room, she had burst into tears, her eager demeanor gone. But he had soothed her.

‘I’ll have to give your money back,’ she had choked out, ‘this can’t be what you want.’

Cuthbert had sat them down together on the bed and stroked her hair and held her tight against his chest. ‘Only if you don’t want me after all,’ he’d said.

‘But I do,’ she sobbed, ‘I want it to be you.’

He had smiled into her hair and kissed the top of her head. ‘Then don’t worry yourself a bit. There’s no shame in having a good cry. I’ve been known to cry myself, and, let me tell you, drizzling snot down someone else’s shirt is a good sight more pleasant than sneaking off in the forest and pretending that you need to piss.’

She had laughed a bit, and her sobs had lessened; he could tell she thought he was telling the truth. He’d admitted he had never been with a virgin, not even when he was one himself, and she had told him things about her life - her name (Sandra), how she had come here, her deep love for a boy here, Miles, who was not attracted to girls (though he had shown her what a naked man looked like when she had asked), her half hope that some farmer or trader would buy her to be his wife though she would rather marry Miles even if he did not want to have sex with her, her confused arousal when she saw Cuthbert downstairs and realized she could choose him for her first.

He’d tried to kiss her then, but she had stopped him. This is not the source of the empty feeling - Sandra is not the first whore who preferred not to kiss him on the lips - but it is not helping.

‘I want to,’ she had told him, ‘but I can’t. I don’t dare fall in love with you.’

He’d understood. ‘We’ll be friends, then, for tonight. Friends who make each other feel so good,’ he teased her with her own words from downstairs, ‘Not like you and Miles.’

‘Oh yes,’ she’d breathed, and he’d dipped to kiss her neck instead as they undressed.

He made her come first with his fingers on her clit, sliding them only superficially over her entrance to spread her juices around and increase her pleasure. Then, he’d made her come again with his tongue. Next, he’d stretched her out with his fingers. She had not come from this (not quite), but he had found the spot to aim for once he had his cock inside. 

He’d entered her carefully, kissing her cheek and stroking her skin until she was ready for him to move. Starting slowly, he had built his pace until she had fully adjusted and he had her moaning. He shifted positions so he could plunge downward deeper and harder, and he had made her come with his cock. 

Then Alain had touched him. It was the barest brush of touch, checking on him as he often did when they were not within each other’s sight, and Cuthbert had not thought much of it at the time, balls deep as he was in a beautiful girl, bringing her her first experience of carnal pleasure. 

He had sunk down to his elbows so that he was pressed against her front and wrapped his arms around her shoulders as he carried on with short, shallow thrusts, enjoying her closeness and the scent of her hair as he brought himself back from the edge, wanting her to come on his cock at least once more before he came himself.

It was when he had pushed himself up on his hands again and was thrusting deep into her, about to make her scream, that Alain touched him again. This time it was different. 

As was often the case when Alain touched Cuthbert with more than just that barest brush, the edges of his mind spilled into Cuthbert’s. Suddenly, he knew with certainty that Alain was aroused, chasing his own release, and thinking about Cuthbert. He felt Alain come and thrust into Sandra with involuntary force. She convulsed around him, cried his name, and scratched his back. Then he came too, hard and gasping, seeing stars, and thinking not of his partner’s pleasure, as he usually did, but of Alain’s hungry gaze on his cock when the brazen, busty whore downstairs had rubbed him into hardness for all the room to see: Alain had caught himself and looked up, and their eyes had locked. If Alain had touched him then, Cuthbert knows this night would have ended very differently. 

Quickly, he had buried that thought as deep as he could inside himself before Alain could recover from his orgasm and glean it from the surface of his pleasure addled mind. Alain’s touch had ended suddenly, and that buried thought had burned a little hole inside him, which has expanded in the moments since. 

Alain has been in love with him for years, and Cuthbert knows he truly loves him back, but he has not dared cross that line for Roland’s sake. He cannot bear his disapproval. And so he lies here in the arms of a beautiful girl who offered him her virginity but not a single kiss, the empty feeling growing inside him.


	8. Chapter 8

A knock on the door jars him from his reverie. Sandra startles and sits up, pulling the blankets up over her breasts. Cuthbert does not stir except to let her out of the circle of his arm. He immediately misses her warmth on his chest. 

“Who is it?” Sandra calls in a high voice designed to carry through the door.

“It’s Miles,” someone says softly from the other side.

Sandra looks between Cuthbert and the door, clearly unable to decide what to do. He squeezes her hand and rises, shivering a little as the cool night air brushes across his naked body. He misses the warmth of the blankets now, too, and the heat his own body made when he was inside her. For warmth more than modesty he pulls on his trousers, then slings his gun belt around his waist as he crosses toward the door.

Miles keeps talking. “I cry your pardon - I’m just on my way to bed. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Are you alright?”

Cuthbert opens the door and stands to the side, one hand on his gun, so that Miles can come in. He’s a pale young man, a little younger than Cuthbert, with fine blond hair and intelligent green eyes. He has cleaned up well, but Cuthbert can tell he’s been with someone tonight. The faint smell of semen and sweat already lingers in the room, but Cuthbert thinks it clings to Miles as well, and his lips are still a little red from kissing or sucking. Were there any other customers tonight besides their little group? Even if there were, Miles’ timing is conspicuous. Though Cuthbert’s mind has been racing, his unerring internal clock tells him it has only been a few minutes since he and Sandra finished and Alain was in his mind. Alain would not have been so careless as to let this young man come to see his friend so soon if he had realized Cuthbert could tell when he was touching him. Of course, he’d never have touched him in the first place, then. Cuthbert smiles wryly. In spite of the empty feeling now, it had been one of the best orgasms of his life.

Miles stands, uncertain, in the doorway, eyeing Cuthbert’s hand on his gun. 

He releases it and gestures into the room, twisting his wry smile into a sweeter one. “Aren’t you going to come in?”

Miles does, just far enough for Cuthbert to close the door behind him. “I cry your pardon,” he addresses Cuthbert, “I only wanted to say goodnight to Sandra since it was her first time.” He turns to Sandra. “You are alright?”

She smiles widely. “I am.”

“Good,” Miles smiles back and takes a step towards her before he stops and edges back towards Cuthbert. “I cry your pardon,” he says yet again, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Miles,” Sandra calls.

They stare at each other for a moment. Eventually, Miles turns reluctantly toward the door. 

Cuthbert stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “You seem like you would rather stay.”

Miles’ eyes widen and he looks up into Cuthbert’s. “I cry your pardon,” he whispers, frightened.

Cuthbert frowns but does not let him go. He glances over at Sandra, who is clutching the covers tight around her. “Would you like him to stay here?”

“We often share a bed,” the girl admits, “but you have paid . . .”

“And got what I paid for, did I not?”

“But . . .”

“I did,” he says emphatically. “Stay here with your friend,” he says to Miles. “I’ll bunk in with Alain. Where is he?”

Miles’s eyes widen further. He points at the wall behind Cuthbert. “Next room down.”

Cuthbert sighs. “And what shall I tell him you told me?”

“I . . . I met Nora in the hall on my way in. The one you met downstairs who doesn’t much like pretty men? She told me he would rather sleep alone.”

Cuthbert smiles widely. “Excellent. I’m actually a terrible liar, you see.”

“If you’re sure you want to let me stay here, you might be able to share with your friend. I met Nora in the hallway, and she told me he would rather sleep alone, but he might not mind sharing if it were somebody he knew. Sandy and I can talk a bit while you go ask, and I’ll go somewhere else if he doesn’t want to share.” He smiles.

Cuthbert grins. “I don’t think that’s likely. I like you, Miles. I’m glad. I like you very much.” He releases his shoulder and turns to gather the rest of his things. He stuffs his shirt and waistcoat in his pack, slings it over his shoulder, sets his hat on the back of his head, and picks up his boots in one hand. “Farewell sweet Sandra, sleep well.” He reaches his hand out toward her and she takes it. He kisses it softly and smiles his sweetest smile.

“Good night, Cuthbert,” she coos, “You were wonderful.”

He places a finger alongside his nose. “As were you.”

He turns to Miles, and his smile falls. He is a good four inches shorter than Cuthbert and much paler in complexion, but, in his slight build, lanky limbs, and long fingered hands, Cuthbert can’t help but see himself - a younger him, perhaps, like he was in Mejis. He hopes briefly that Miles is older now than Cuthbert was then. He's almost sure he is.

Going into Alain’s room might be a mistake, but Cuthbert longs to be close to him and feel the loving thrum of his touch. If he does not want him there (unlikely), Cuthbert decides he’ll knock on doors until he finds Roland or Jamie. They might tease, but Roland will be in a sentimental mood, and they both have hearts kind enough and arms long enough to squeeze Cuthbert until the gaping hole inside him closes up again. Next time (if there is one), Cuthbert decides he will make sure to find a gilly girl who likes to kiss. He thinks that that would help.

“Thank you, Cuthbert,” Miles says, with the ease of someone who has heard and said the name more than once already.

“Good night, Miles,” he replies, looking into his eyes and clapping him on the shoulder once again. Then, on an impulse, remembering how swollen his lips were when he came in, he slides his hand to gently rest on the young man’s neck and slowly leans down, giving him plenty of time to move away or object.

Their lips meet, and Cuthbert makes a little whimpering noise in the back of his throat. Behind him, he can hear Sandra’s swift intake of breath. Miles slides a hand into his hair and opens his mouth, licking across Cuthbert’s bottom lip. He moans again more fully and chases the tongue into Miles’ mouth, savoring the feeling of their stubble scraping together. Cuthbert has never kissed a man before, not in a sexual way. 

Miles sucks on his tongue, and Cuthbert feels himself grow hard for a second time. He pulls away, laughing. “Thank you, young man, that was just what I needed.”

“I reckon you might need a little bit more,” he says, looking down at Cuthbert’s tented trousers. “Let me?”

“I . . .”

“Nothing you couldn’t get from a woman, I promise.”

Cuthbert purses his lips. He’s very tempted, especially since Miles spent the evening with Alain. Roland would never need to know, but Cuthbert would be stepping closer to that line. The world has moved on. Torn between two aspects of his love, Cuthbert feels like the leather strap Alain described, separating them from fire and darkness. How long before his resolve snaps altogether? Would he plunge into the darkness and fire, or is the metaphor all wrong? He would be no less devoted to Roland, whom he so dearly loves, and he knows that Roland loves him back and loves Alain as well.

As Cuthbert considers, Miles drops slowly, gracefully to his knees but doesn’t move to touch him. Sandra watches them, eyes wide and dark. She looks from him to Miles.

“You could pretend,” Miles suggests.

Cuthbert laughs, high and strained. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I could help,” Sandra suggests. “I want to learn. You’ve been so good.” She smiles sweetly and gets out of bed, kneeling, naked, next to Miles.

“Are you not cold?” Cuthbert asks.

“Not any more. I’ve been burning up since you kissed.”

Cuthbert’s heart aches; they certainly know how to tempt him. “If it pleases you both,” he relents.

“It pleases me,” Miles says, hands toying now with the button of Cuthbert’s trousers. Without the aid of his suspenders, they are sinking low about his bony hips. “You are very handsome. And you helped Sandra with her first time. I want to see what all the fuss is about.” He winks.

“It was wonderful,” she purrs, “It pleases me to please you one more time.” She breathes against his crotch, and his cock tries to leap through the fabric into her mouth. “He used his mouth on me. I came four times,” she confides quietly to Miles.

“Good,” Miles says. He looks up into Cuthbert’s eyes and kisses his bare belly. “You need to come again before you go in there and pretend this isn’t what you want from him.”

Cuthbert laughs breathily, “Yes, yes I do.” 

It is Sandra who undoes his trousers in the end, while Miles licks around his belly button and runs his nose through the course hair below it. Slender hands come up to toy with his nipples while Sandra gently guides his trousers down, out from under his gun belt and over his straining cock, until they pool around his ankles. Her small hand strokes along his cock. Cuthbert drops his boots.

“That’s right,” says Miles, “stay awhile.”

“Miles, what do I do?” She leans forward to touch the tip with her tongue.

“That’s nice,” Cuthbert encourages.

“Show me more?” She begs her friend.

“Well, licking and kissing is nice,” he says, and he runs his own tongue all the way down Cuthbert’s length, and kisses up the sides. 

Sandra mimics him, and it looks like they are kissing around his cock, though their lips rarely touch. “He tastes like me,” she guesses. “Don't you mind?”

Miles shrugs.

“You're sweet,” says Cuthbert.

“Sweet,” Miles echoes and kisses her cheek before he continues his lesson. “You can also suck his balls.” He ducks down to take one in his mouth, and Sandra tentatively mouths the other. Cuthbert groans.

“But the best is if you put it in your mouth.”

Sandra nods nervously.

Expertly, Miles takes hold of Cuthbert’s cock at the base. “Just take in what you can - you’ll get better later on. And cover your teeth up like this.” He opens his mouth wide and folds his lips over his teeth. He holds this pose, fishlike, for Sandra to examine.

Cuthbert’s laugh chokes into a moan as Miles swallows the first few inches of his cock, moving back and forth, stroking it with his tongue, and massaging the base with his hand.

“He’s licking me with his tongue,” he tells Sandra, “and he’s using his hand to touch me where he can’t quite reach.”

Miles pulls back. “Oh, I can reach,” he gives a predatory smile, “That’s just for you beginners.” He swallows Cuthbert’s entire cock.

Cuthbert is not exceptionally large, but it is still rare for someone to take all of him in like this. He moans and clutches at Miles’ shoulders, careful not to grab his head or force himself in deeper.

But Miles has other ideas. He pulls back and moves Cuthbert’s hands to tangle in his hair. “It’s alright, gunslinger. I give you leave to fuck my face.”

Cuthbert gasps.

Miles smiles and swallows his cock again, but this time he holds still, waiting for Cuthbert to move. Eventually, he takes Cuthbert’s buttocks in his hands and pulls his hips more flush against his face.

“I want to see you do it,” Sandra says.

Cuthbert pushes forward just a little. He feels Miles’ throat open to accommodate him, and the young man squeezes his buttocks in encouragement. Cuthbert pulls back and thrusts forward again, and Miles hums around his cock. He thrusts, again and again, deep into his throat, helplessly now seeking his own release.

Suddenly, the hot, wet, mouth is gone. Cuthbert is breathing heavily, his cock straining to be inside of something warm and moist again. He giggles breathlessly. “You tease.”

“Sandra hasn’t had a turn,” Miles explains, “I got a little carried away.”

“I can’t do that,” Sandra says, nervously.

“You don’t need to,” Cuthbert tells her, stroking her hair, “You don’t need to do anything.”

“Just suck him like I did at first,” Miles suggests. 

Tentatively, Sandra does, and it is wonderful. Her smaller, less experienced mouth accommodates less of his member, and her little hands are overly gentle. For a moment, Cuthbert can imagine he’s a teenager again, learning the pleasures of the flesh with an inexperienced sweetheart. Is this what that would have felt like? He whimpers.

Miles’ soft voice interrupts his fantasy. “You don’t have to let him come in your mouth,” he tells his friend. Then he fondles Cuthbert’s balls. “Feel how tight they have become? He’s close. If you don’t want to swallow, you can always pull back and finish him off with your hands so he can spill over your breasts.”

“Whatever you want,” Cuthbert agrees, “I am close. Miles?”

“Yes?” The young man gazes up at him through pale lashes.

“Kiss me again?”

He nods and stands. To Cuthbert’s surprise, he doesn’t only kiss him, but he takes him in his arms, ready to support him through his orgasm. His kiss is aggressive, his tongue pressing into Cuthbert’s mouth, one hand tangling in his hair. Cuthbert’s hat tips off his head and hangs from the string around his neck. He feels his body growing taut and pulls his mouth away to warn Sandra.

“I,” he manages before Miles claims his mouth again and he loses himself in the feel of the tongue touching his and the tongue on his cock.

He comes, and Sandra chokes, pulling back quickly so the remainder of his cum spurts onto her chin and dribbles down her bare breasts.

“Thank you,” Cuthbert whispers into Miles’ mouth. 

He falls to his knees, slipping out of Miles’ grasp, and licks Sandra’s chin and breasts and nipples clean. Then he shimmies onto his stomach and licks between her legs again. She comes for the fifth time.

He looks up to see her cradled in Miles’ arms and knows that it is time to go. Silently, he stands and fastens his trousers. He crosses to the washbasin and splashes his face. He gathers his things again. “Thank you,” he repeats, and then he slips out the door.

In the hallway, Cuthbert takes a few steps to his left and enters Alain’s room without a sound.

This room is dark; Alain may be asleep. As quiet as can be, he finds a place to stow his pack, boots, and hat. He unfastens his guns and hangs the belt over his shoulder. He unbuttons his dangling suspenders from his trousers and creeps toward the bed. When he gets closer, he can see Alain’s eyes open in the dark.

“Bert? What are you doing here?” Alain asks softly. “What happened to the pretty redhead?”

“Happily curled up with a pretty blonde,” Cuthbert replies, sitting on the bed, “A boy. She said they often share a bed. Not for sex, I think.”

“But I know you like to spend the night,” Alain objects, “You paid . . .”

“So they said also, but I would rather sleep with you. The boy said he met Nora in the hallway - that one who manhandled me downstairs,” he repeats, “and she told him you would rather sleep alone, but I hoped you might not mind sharing if it were only me.”

Alain lets out a breath that might be a sigh of relief. “Of course I do not mind. But why do you prefer it?”

“Because you love me, and she doesn’t. When I’ve finished in these places I sometimes feel so hollow inside I’ve half a mind to stop.”

Alain laughs softly. “Tell me another. Next time you have an opportunity, you’ll be as eager as ever to bury your cock in some girl’s pussy.”

Cuthbert laughs, too. “Hence only half a mind.” He toys with the edge of the blanket. “You’re sure you don’t mind sharing?”

“Never, Cuthbert,” Alain says, “Get in, get warm, and stop thinking about gillies who don’t love you.”

Still wearing his trousers, Cuthbert gets into the warm bed next to Alain’s naked body and lies on his back with his eyes closed. They don’t touch physically, but he can feel Alain caress his mind, looking for the best way to provide comfort. He already feels better.

“What shall I think on, then?”

“Breakfast,” Alain decides. 

Cuthbert laughs so that Alain can tell he’s pleased, even though he’s sure he feels it through the touch. He thinks of savory sausages and honey drizzled pastries and eventually drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex in the middle of this chapter caught me by surprise, and I fully intended to cut it later on. Then I didn't.


	9. Chapter 9

Three weeks later it is snowing. How quickly the weather seems to change! Fighting the bitter, icy wind, the four of them trudge across a flat plain covered in knee-deep snow. At last they see a light.

A youngish woman with a pretty face opens the farmhouse door wearing a thick, shapeless sweater and a sour expression. Two small children peer around the edges of her skirt. 

“You can sleep in the barn,” she tells them, her comely features pinched in irritation, “but only if he comes in and keeps me company.” She points at Cuthbert.

Roland, Jamie, and Alain turn to look at him with matching expressions of concern and desperation - is he willing to give his body to this woman so that they can all survive the night? Cuthbert’s long nose is frozen. It is a stupid question.

“Yes, of course, whatever you want,” he tells her, smiling. He feels his cold lips crack.

Inside, Cuthbert moves immediately to crouch beside the embers dying in her hearth. The feeling in his nose and fingers begins slowly to return.

The woman clears her throat. She stands above him, face still pinched, hands on her hips. The children gape at him, wide-eyed and open mouthed.

He waves at them, then looks up to smile at her again. This time he can feel the blood from his cracked lip leak out and dribble down his chin. He frowns and wipes it on his sleeve.

She huffs out a breath and her expression softens slightly. “Get those wet clothes off then, and go and wait in there.” She points to a doorway on the other side of the room.

He nods. “My thanks . . .” but she is gone, marching with purpose into another room, the still gaping children trailing reluctantly in her wake.

Cuthbert strips off all his clothes and leaves them by the dying fire. She can retrieve them for him later if she’s worried about the children seeing. He hunkers one more moment by the hearth, then hurries to the room she indicated, hoping for a bed piled high with heavy, wool blankets. He is not disappointed. Cuthbert drops his pack on the floor and sets his guns on the bedside table. He pulls the heavy covers up over his nose, closes his eyes, and lies under their comforting weight, waiting for his body to warm up. 

By the time the woman comes to see him, Cuthbert can feel all of his extremities, and he is no longer shaking from the cold. He has opened his eyes and taken time to look around the room. He has noticed that the bed is wide enough for two people to sleep comfortably, but it is set flush against a wall, so she must sleep alone most of the time. Since she has children, he presumes she is a widow. He has noticed the pitcher of water on the single bedside table where he set his guns and helped himself to a drink using the single glass beside it. It was when he set the glass back down he noticed the long, slender piece of wood. He picked it up - it’s very smooth, impossible to get a splinter. What could it be for? It doesn’t resemble anything he has ever seen, except . . . he giggles, then remembers why he is here.

When she finally storms in and slams the door, he cannot help himself. 

“Is this what I think it is?”

She huffs and purses her lips. “I was not expecting company.”

He smiles widely. “I’ve never seen one before. Can I watch you use it?”

“You cheeky bastard. What are you for, then?” Her lips twitch - could this be the beginning of a smile?

“Whatever you want,” he pulls the blankets back, inviting her to join him while simultaneously revealing his cock, which is beginning to take interest in spite of the cold. Cuthbert has always been insatiably curious; one pull brings him to full hardness. “This model comes with lips and hands. But I’d like to see you teach me what you know you like.”

She crosses the room quickly and snatches her longstick out of his hand. She strokes it down his cheek and across his lips, then trails it down his chest and slides it up his cock, which jumps. 

He follows with his eyes, then looks up at her and tilts his head. “What’s your pleasure, pretty lady.”

Now she laughs. “Alright,” she points the stick at him, “I’ll use it on myself and you can watch . . .”

Cuthbert wipes his mouth.

“If you also fuck me, and use your mouth and hands . . .”

He nods and smiles. “Of course!”

“And if you let me stick it in you after.”

His smile falters slightly. A nervous terror springs out of the unabated arousal in his belly and crawls up into his throat. He swallows it and grins. 

“I’ll try anything once.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is a smutty story, but I originally intended it to be even smuttier, set entirely in the brothel with a chapter each for Roland, Cuthbert, Alain, and Jamie. The final story has a lot more content about their journey and is much more Cuthbert/Alain-centric than I originally imagined. Jamie's chapter is actually the first part of the story I wrote, then I deleted it because it didn't really fit in the end. I can post it if anyone is interested.


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